Beers, Billiards and Brociopaths.
Over the noise of the bar and all the ponies in it, Button Mash could distinctly make out the sound of an angry Zebra screaming the words “Shake That Ass, Bitch!” coming through the double-sized, megawatt, ear-splitting speakers all around him. His eyes were glued to the backside of the older mare who had asked him to dance no more than fifteen minutes ago;, Button Mash had not too long ago come to the realization that he was a lucky, lucky pony.
Blossomforth led the charge and like any obedient hungry dog who’d never been neutered, he followed not after what his heart desired, but what the dangly organ hanging between his legs wanted; Blossomforth’s rear to bounce against his waist while she danced with him.
If a pony had asked him a week ago if he’d ever find himself in this situation he’d have turned red in the cheeks and rebuffed the idea, clinging onto the mental image to use later. Now the chance was here and he wasn’t a pony dumb enough to let it go. At least, that’s what he kept telling himself.
In the centre of the dance floor, surrounded by countless sweating, panting, grinding, groping, dancing bodies, was where Blossomforth took her pause. She spun around, her mane flew sideways and then she stared him dead in the eyes. Hers were hungry — the same way a jackal might look before it made a kill — and if he wasn’t mistaken she was also wearing a playful smirk.
Button Mash swallowed back a wad of something nasty that had been caught up in his tight, and dry throat. It went down hard. Harder than any of the rank smelling and foul tasting shots he’d taken that night. He blinked his eyes. He was still standing. Blossomforth was still before him, smiling.
Wordlessly, Blossomforth started moving her body to the beat of the song playing. It started slow. She began to twist her rear left and right, catching each bass-kick of the song with a snap of her waist. She shook her tight, toned ass — there was no better word for it in Button’s vocabulary — to the left, again to the right, pause and then repeat. That was her rhythm.
Without a moment’s notice she threw her left hoof forward and cupped it tight around the back of Button’s sweat-dampened neck. He didn’t have the time do much but give a half-hearted ‘YELP’-like noise before she pulled him to her, holding him tight against her boisterous chest. Blossomforth propped herself upright so that she stood on her hind legs, dragged Button Mash’s smaller, mostly limp body up with her, and then draped the second of her free legs around him; holding him tight to her and pressing her face into the space between his shoulder and face and messing up his fur with her cheek.
“Let’s dance,” was all she said before her hooves traced along his back, grabbing at as much of his mildly pudgy flesh as she could get a grip on, before she reached the cheeks of his butt — which she, again, pinched tighter than any grandmother had ever done to the cheeks on his face.
The tightness returned to his throat, along with a painful sort of pulse that came from the area between his legs. It hurt, yeah, but it also felt good. He recalled a thousand and one times he’d felt that same pulse soar through him. It usually started with him cracking open a fresh copy of Filly Fanny Fun.
Her hooves grabbing him by the ass and her buxom chest rubbing against his flat and plain own. Button Mash tried his hardest not to physically express how much he was enjoying this moment in time and space by staring at the ponies in the crowd who were watching him. Looks of shock, awe, and, most importantly to him, jealous scorns adorned the faces of older stallions all around him.
He was a lucky colt. He had a beautiful mare wrapped around him in ways he’d never imagined one to be. There was hard liquor and vibrant energy pulsing through his veins. The night was young and nothing would break this moment.
Button Mash had never been the type of pony to allow any good thing that happened to him not be ruined by his set of deep seated insecurities, fears and worries about who he was, and the small space he represented in the face of the cosmic spectrum. So, like every other time in his life, he began to worry.
What was he doing with Blossomforth?
Why was she attracted to him?
Was she using him?
Was he using her?
What would Dinky Doo say if she walked in through the front door and saw them together?
Why was that a worry he held in his heart?
At the start of the night he'd been told he'd have a night he would never forget, and, beyond all the ounces of liquid courage, the cheers, birthday wishes, presents, and good company, the humbling promise of the prospects of losing his virginity remained. His virginity was a shame he he couldn't seem to shake (though certainly not for a lack of trying). Today was his birthday and he was an adult now in the eyes of Equestrian Civil Law. He was old enough to vote, or to join the ranks of the Royal Guards, or even apply for a loan. Still, he would never be anything more than a colt until he could manage to wrestle away that pesky virginity of his.
Rumble had lost his first, to Flitter, almost two years back, Shady not long after to Twist (and then again, and more properly in tune with his newfound sexual identity, to a stallion named Spark Plug after a DJ Pon3 show in Canterlot). Now, here was Button Mash, the last third of the equation. The missing puzzle piece. The Third Amigo flying solo.
If dancing with Blossomforth was going to get him any closer to his proper introduction into stallionhood, Button Mash wanted a part of it.
He smiled with her, found courage he never knew he had and wrapped his once loose and feeble legs around her waist, bringing her body to his. The song switched from sexually charged rap screamed by Zebras to a more popular, well overplayed pop song that Button didn’t know the name of, but that Blossomforth seemed to love hearing. She put her head on his shoulder and Button brushed his hoof through her mane. She smelt exactly like what he imagined pretty to smell like; hints of cinnamon, vanilla and jasmine.
Were the boys and girls back at the table watching him like a pack of predators, judging his every mis-step? Were they smiling and laughing about how he couldn’t maintain a proper rhythm to save his life?
He drew his gaze away from Blossomforth’s shoulder, past the crowd and towards the table where the gang of ponies he’d joined earlier sat drinking, laughing, cheering, and chatting.
That was when Button Mash started to feel characteristically uncomfortable.
***
Presently, despite Button Mash’s mental conditioning, the colts, stallions and mares at the table were not sitting around, drinking and laughing at their friend’s — and mutual acquaintances — expense, but instead waiting patiently while Brolly prepared to share a witticism with them.
“Picture the scene,” Brolly announced to the crowd gathered around the table. There were five of them now. Thunderlane sat holding onto Cloud Kicker, Flitter — leaning forwards on her elbows, listening intently and batting her eyes. Beside her, Cloud Kicker, then Rumble — sipping on a cold Lo-Brau, smiling at Flitter — and finally, rounding them out; Shady Daze — tapping the table with his left hoof so that all the half empty mugs and beer bottles shook, and rolling his eyes.
Brolly, looking just about ready to continue on with his story, cleared a loogie out of his throat, twisted his body backwards, leaned over the reaches of the seats in the booth and hacked the phlegm in his throat over the railing. It fell with no grace whatsoever and landed on the backside of a mare dancing on the floor below. Brolly watched her wipe the spit from her back with a disgusted look to her and then smiled to himself. He twisted himself back towards the table and decided to continue on with his story.
“The other week,” he said, stopped, then cocked his head sideways as if he was unsure of himself and which direction the story he was telling would go. Flitter touched his leg beneath the table and he smiled. “Yeah, no, just about last week, me and Thunderlane were down at The Legion, takin’ particular advantage of their two-for-one special on Voddy and Soda’s. We were shooting stick. You know, talking shit about this guy and that girl. Who’s fucking who. Who’s getting fat. Who’s rich. Who’s poor. That sorta stuff. Anyway, so we’re engaged in what could possibly be the most intense tournament of billiards this shit town’s ever seen. Now, I’m playin’ like Paul-Fuckin-Newmane in The Hustler. I mean, I’m making shots behind my back, around the bend, turning those little bastards into my own personal mockeries y’know? And Thunderlane’s gettin’ his tanned hide taken for a ride by yours truly...”
Brolly stopped and gave his friend a grin. Thunderlane returned it — half assed (Rumble could tell) — then held Cloud Kicker’s body tight against his own. Cloud Kicker was Thunderlane’s prize in the same way that Flitter was Brolly’s. A nomadic mentality was present at the table, one that lowered the likes of Cloud Kicker and Flitter from proud and independent mares, to nothing more than trophies to be flaunted. Prizes worn around, and shagged between, the legs Brolly and Thunderlane. Neither of the two older stallions were doing much to reverse rampant misogyny and tireless sexism in Equestria, but at least the girls didn’t seem to mind.
“Right!” jabbered Brolly, “So, anyhow, all of a sudden this hard lookin’ prick steps into the bar. You know the type; long greasy mane down his face, mustard and sweat stained wife-beater, muscles like he’s been juicing for years. A prick. A total fuckin’ knob. And, hey, look; You all know me. I’m not the sort of guy to go looking for a fight, but I ain’t afraid to finish one someone else started. That’s just me.”
Pause for Brolly to grab hold of Flitter by the waist, squeeze her smaller frame hard and then pull her towards him. This was, of course, just in case anyone at the table had forgotten who she was sleeping with night after night. He held his prize with all the force he could muster, and flashed the table a toothy grin, flaunting two rows of yellowed teeth to the crowd. He sipped his beer and continued.
“So, this is the set up; I’ve got the eight ball in my corner, all my others are well past sunk and all I gotta do is get that little black ‘n’ white bastard into the corner hole to win the game. Meanwhile, this fuckin’ prick pops a squat right across from me and starts staring. Looking right fuckin’ at me, as if to say ‘Hey, chump. Let’s go!’ And, are you kidding me? I’m not there to throw down with some deadbeat faggot over something so little as this, but I’m also not opposed to sticking the fat end of my pool cue up this guy’s puss and turning him into a popsicle, either. Granted, this guy’s clearly from the wrong side o’ the tracks and of a different mind than I am, but it’s a pride thing, right?”
Brolly stopped to look at the faces staring back at him with worried expressions worn long across their faces — save for Thunderlane. Of course. It was as if, somehow, the notion that this sentiment; defending one’s own honor in the face of adversity, wasn’t shared with his audience. Thunderlane nodded his head at Brolly and, beneath the table, nudged his brother with his leg — urging Rumble to do the same. Rumble smiled the same faked and forced grin that his brother had on towards Brolly and nodded his head in sync with Thunderlane’s. The girls were smiling, completely oblivious. Only Shady Daze, proudly wearing a rebellious look of disinterest, showed his true colours. Brolly stared him cold in the eyes, rolled his own and then took a firmer hold of Flitter’s waist.
“So what’s a guy to do?” he continued, giving a hearty, confused, shrug of his wings. He stopped to allow someone to answer what was in reality a rhetorical question — since only he knew the answer outright — and when no one made a move to answer, he smirked. “I’ll tell ya what a guy’s to do,” he answered., “A guy like me doesn’t aim to be made a mockery of. So, I waltz right up to this pinko faggy looking cunt, and I give him the eye, right? The glare that says ‘Come on, kid. Let’s do this.’ And what does that cunt do? He shits the fuckin’ bed. Puts down his drink, swallows his pride and high tails it the fuck outta there!”
Brolly accented his point by slamming both of his upper hooves on the table. Drinks shook, glasses clinked and curious, wary and judgemental eyes from the crowd were drawn to their seating arrangement. He turned his happy-go-lucky grin into a scowl and then aimed it squarely at Shady, who found himself being swallowed into the cold plastic depths of his seat in the booth. Convinced of his victory over Shady — for whichever reason it mattered to him — Brolly leaned backwards in his seat, flashed another toothy grin to the table, hugged Flitter tighter with his right leg and lifted his beer from the table with his left.
“And after that,” he said, boastfully sipping from his drink. “Well... the game was mine.”
That was Brolly’s story. Another timeless tale of triumph over impossible odds perhaps, or just another random warning; a flashing of verbal muscles to warn the likes of Shady Daze and Rumble that he was still very much aware of those who sat at the table who he considered friends, and those who were outsiders. Either way, the girls seemed to like it. Flitter snuggled herself further against her boyfriend, throwing a leg over his shoulder and finding a place to rest her head against his broad chest. Cloud Kicker tickled the fur beneath Thunderlane’s throat with her hoof, tilting his face to hers to catch his mouth with her own.
Rumble gave a dry heave then downed the rest of his beer.
"Cool story, Brolly."
The table turned to draw a unified, half nervous/half curious glare towards a very laboured looking Shady Daze.
He gave a slow clap, fanned his hoof over his mouth to cover a yawn he was faking and then smiled at the growing scowl on Brolly's face.
"And what-the-flying-fuck would a, limp legged, cum sponge like you know about telling a good story?" spat Brolly, "Gonna enlighten us all about your latest trip to The Cock and Plunker’s glory hole are ya?"
Shady Daze glared at Brolly. Brolly back at him. The world around them froze while they gave ugly at each other.
Around the table, the gathered ponies made moves of their own: Cloud Kicker shook her head, trying in vain to warn Shady of the approaching shit-storm he was steering himself into. Thunderlane leaned backwards in his seat, threw a leg over the headrest of Cloud Kicker's seat and waited for the gongshow that came next. Flitter blinked her eyes, and when Shady looked at Rumble, there came to be a soft, worried look about him.
There was no kindness to be found anywhere on Brolly's face. He was snorting through his nostrils and curling his lip to bare fangs at Shady.
Flitter's giggle broke the silence. "Stop being so silly, Brolly." She laughed, "Shady's just joking around. Your story was wonderful."
She stroked his chest with her hoof then dove in to kiss Brolly's, throat, cheek and mouth.
Distracted, Brolly hooked a leg around the back of Flitter's neck and made it public to the table how much he wanted to give her the ride when the night was through. He felt up her chest in broad view of the table, turned away from Shady and attacked her mouth with his.
Rumble sank into his seat, cupped two hooves around his half empty pint glass and tried to stare anywhere but at the two soon-to-be-fucking ponies at the table.
"For shit’s sakes, Shady." Thunderlane laughed., "You've really got a pair, eh?"
He leaned across the table and slapped a hoof against Shady's shoulder, raised it and punched it, playfully, against his cheek. Shady cocked his head left, grinned and grabbed for his beer on the table. He pulled it towards him, raised his cup and tipped it towards the still grinning Thunderlane before taking a sip.
“I thought all you gays were supposed to be sissies." Thunderlane continued. “You could teach Rumble a thing or two about growing a set of testicles.”
Rumble perked his head up. “Fuck does that mean?”
Brolly flared his nostrils and furrowed his brows. “It means you’re a fuckin’ pussy!”
Brolly laughed, Thunderlane snickered and even Shady gave a grin. Brolly rolled his tongue through his pursed lips and dragged it along the side of Flitter’s throat. Rumble groaned. He gave a look towards Shady. One that was equal parts scorned and bitter and curled his lips into a scowl at the still prideful colt sitting across from him. Shady smiled back, waved his hoof daintly towards the colt and sipped his beer.
“Now then,” said Brolly, clapping his hooves together. “What do you say you ladies go get a few more drinks in ya while us stallions discuss some business?”
The ladies — Cloud Kicker and Flitter — nodded their heads and Shady Daze stood up to excuse them from the table. The girls moved past him, smiling, and just as he was about to retake his spot at the table Brolly fed his left lower hoof into Shady's rear, knocking him a few paces forwards so that he lost his balance, stumbled and then fell to the floor. Brolly gave a booming, bass heavy laugh. Thunderlane a high pitched snort. It wasn’t until he heard Rumble give a giggle that Shady Daze died a little on the inside. He picked himself up, wiped a hoof across his rear end to brush the dirt and grime off, then turned to look back at the table.
The boys were laughing; Brolly slapped the table hard, gave Thunderlane a hoof-five and then snapped out a line to put the final nail in Shady’s coffin. “When I said ladies I did mean everypony at the table who likes cock.”
Shady Daze, always the sharpest knife in the drawer, was ready with a witty comeback to knock Brolly off his egotistical throne, but the moral of Brolly’s earlier story weighed heavily in his mind; if Brolly was willing to beat the living piss out of a pony just for staring cock-eyed at him, who could say what he’d do to a colt who stood his ground in his presence. For all the pride that Shady Daze had, his desire to live another day without having to piss through a plastic tube was stronger.
Brolly could have this one.
The first thing he thought to do was look to Rumble for some kind of shield from Brolly, which is what he did. He stared across the table at Rumble, who stared back at him with a softness in his eyes. He opened his mouth to speak, then, closed it just as suddenly and ran a hoof across his slicked back mane. Rumble turned to Thunderlane — still chuckling — and then Brolly, who was giving his best open mouthed giggle. Rumble smiled, laughed and Shady Daze knew exactly what this was.
Sighing, Shady Daze picked his head up again. “Whatever,” he grumbled, “I’ll be at the bar if any of you need me.”
Rumble’s eyes followed Shady as he took long, deliberate steps away from the table. He stopped for a second to turn and stare back at him, then shook his head and turned away. An ugly feeling turned Rumble’s stomach cold and he took a long last sip of his beer to chase it away. He tore his eyes away from his friend, and back to the table where Brolly and Thunderlane were staring at him, smiling.
“Well, it looks like someone’s sleeping in the dog house tonight.” Brolly stated, still laughing.
Thunderlane's cackle came out as a snorted, high pitched and nasally sounding thing. Brolly's laugh followed quickly after. He slapped the table again with his hooves and threw a mean and vicious leer towards the sunken Rumble.
"For fucks sakes, Rumble," said Brolly, "You seriously need to stop hanging out with dorks and fuckin’ fags and get some real friends.”
“Yeah,” Thunderlane nodded his head, “Ponies are starting to talk shit about you, little brother.”
Rumble cocked up an eyebrow, “Like what? Who?”
“Hoops and Dumbbell, dude. Two kids from the Cloudsdale Weather Team who moved here last summer. They’re telling ponies that you three have weekly circle jerks. I mean, those guys are both borderline retarded so no one believes them, but still…”
“Matter of principle,” said Brolly. “You either ditch Shady Fuckin’ Gays and turn Butt’n’Ass into a winner, or no mares are ever gonna wanna look at your naked cock again. Then you’ll be stuck playing grab-ass with Shady.” he grinned, “Unless... you two do that already?”
Rumble dragged his tongue over his molars. He found the courage in him to lift his head and glare, nastily, towards his brother and Brolly. "Hey, fuck you guys, alright?" He grunted through tightly clenched teeth. "Do I look like a homo to you?"
Brolly drew his head back and sneered "Yeah. You look like you've seen one up close."
Rumble's nostrils flared. "Fuck off, Brolly."
Thunderlane slapped a hoof against his brother's shoulder, rubbed the fur he found and flashed a grin. "Chill, dude," he said, smiling. "We're telling you this for your own good. I mean, okay, Shady can be funny sometimes, but he’s still a homo, right? And that kid, Button? Dude, he’s kind of a loser."
“He’s the definition of ‘The Anti-Poon’,” argued Brolly, “Sure, I’d love to tie his mom to my bed for a few nights and give her the wood, but that kid of hers? Shit, he’s a grade-A, bonafide retard. Through and through. I’d be fuckin’ amazed if he didn’t need his mom to help him put his clothes on and strap on his special helmet in the mornings.”
Rumble groaned and took a sip from Thunderlane’s beer. He lifted his eyes, glared at his brother, then Brolly, took another swig from his brother’s glass and sighed. “You guys suck.”
“Nah,” said Brolly, “We’re just telling you what you already know.”
Rumble turned his eyes across the room, to the bar, and watched Shady Daze, standing on his hind legs, hunched over the bar, waving for a bartender and getting ignored in favour of the girls — Flitter and Cloud Kicker — who were being happily serviced by the over enthused bartenders. The cold empty feeling in his stomach came back.
He groaned again.
Brolly's mean and ugly glare turned soft. He smiled, shook his head and reached for his beer. "You're so sensitive, Rumble. Is it that time of the month again already?"
Rumble sighed, quietly, and hunched his shoulders. “Whatever. Can we just get this ‘business’ shit you were talking about over with?”
Thunderlane nodded his head, “Right, yeah.” he said, “We’re going to need a few things first; mainly, we gotta make sure the bathroom is empty…”
Rumble’s eyebrows perked up and he stared, oddly, at his brother. “For what?”
“Drugs, Rumble.” said Brolly, shaking his head and sighing. “You are still cool, right? Or did all that hanging around with Shady Daze and Button Mash turn you into a total fuckin' pussy?”
Thunderlane and Brolly turned their hard, stoic gazes to Rumble, who just scratched the back of his neck with his hoof. He turned away, back towards the bar, where Shady Daze still hadn’t been served by a bartender, and, instead, was idly twirling a coaster advertizing a brand of cigarettes he knew that Shady didn’t smoke. Shady, it seemed, was still waiting in vain for someone, anyone, to notice him. The cold pit in his stomach grew, but there wasn’t any beer left in his mug to chase it away this time.
His older brother and Brolly were still staring at him like a pair of hungry vultures; leering with hard, judging eyes. He ignored them, for a moment, and stared around the bar once more; Across the way, on the dance floor, he caught a glance of Button Mash and Blossomforth dancing together and it made him smile. If nothing else, maybe he could leech some good vibrations off of Button Mash’s soon-to-be successful first time with Blossomforth. Still, it was an empty feeling and so he kept staring around the room.
He caught eyes with Flitter — still standing with Cloud Kicker, sipping what looked like a Vodka Lime out of a plexiglass hiball glass from a straw. She smiled, waved, then turned back to the bar. That familiar, comfortable warm feeling came over him again. He swallowed a lump in his throat, raised his head and smiled at his brother, then Brolly.
“Sure. Why not?” he said, grinning, “Let’s get fucked up. Good and proper.”